From the Bush ranch to you

Usually George writes the annual holiday letter, but with all those resumes piling up on his desk (and a few FBI files too ... just kidding!) he asked if I'd do it. And I'm loving it. As you can imagine, we are happier than a rain barrel full of hopping frogs at a mosquito convention down here in Austin. Even if it does mean we have to move to D.C. next month. Into a smaller house, I'll have you know. Well, George Herbert Walker and Barbara survived that rank hole of barbarism and corruption, so I guess we can too. Here's hoping my hair doesn't turn white.

What a year! Jan. 1 found us taking our lives in our hands as we tempted fate and Y2K (what was that all about anyway?), flying the whole brood up to that horrible little northern state known as New Hampshire. Spent so much time up there, some people suggested I consider running for senator. Ha ha. There was quite a bit of consternation in the ranks when we lost to Mr. War Hero Guy but George's dad called in a few favors and we pulled out South Carolina and Michigan, and the rest of the primary process was pretty much a cruise.

February through June saw us traveling from sea to shining sea as W. sold himself like a bar of new soap, while I spent my time eating bad chicken and listening to nice Republican women tell me how to redo my hair so it would be "more attractive to the menfolk." I tell you, if George decides to run again four years from now, I'm going to spend the entire year faking a coma. Kind of like what Tipper did this year. Ha ha ha. Kidding!

August meant Philadelphia and trust me, those people could not have been sweeter or sweatier. Gosh, it was hot. Otherwise, the Convention was sunshine and seashells and some sweet entertainment. The Temptations rock! It was also a lot of fun getting to know the Cheneys. And let me tell you Dick is like nothing like what you've heard, but a dear sweet man when that wacky Lynne isn't hiding his medication. I will never forget Jim Baker spitting wine through his nose while Dick held us spellbound with his seemingly unending repertoire of Danny Quayle jokes. Even Barbara managed a weak snicker or two.

Like the rest of the country our family couldn't have been more shocked and saddened by Gerry Ford's sudden hospitalization. How was anybody to foresee a minor sinus condition escalating into a stroke? All in all though, I think it actually helped us by emphasizing the importance of hubby's health care proposals even more. Poor Gerry. Must have been the cheese steaks. Or the tequila shooters. Not kidding.

During October the debates proved to be the turning point in the race, where my boy beat the human dialtone and all those so-called experts by simply being himself and not drooling. Of course I'm hoping I may have helped the teeniest bit by forcing him to watch that series of deer in headlights tapes and then advising him not to look like that.

Quickly came a Nov. 7 our family will never forget. And a Nov. 8. And a Nov. 9. And all the way up to a lucky Dec. 13. Let me just say here that Al Gore is the most wonderful living product of reverse taxidermy I've ever met, and I'm sorry someone had to lose, but to be perfectly honest, I was really really glad it was them and not us. Is that catty? Well then, just call me the "Hiss Miss." Rowwr.

Well, that's enough gabbing out of me. All of us here at the ranch wish you and yours the happiest of holidays and New Year's. I'm telling you, it's going to be a good one. I overheard George on the phone, talking about big plans for his first term. Something about a 15 percent tax cut ... or was it a tax increase? Read my lips: just kidding!

We'll see you at the big old White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. on Jan. 20. Don't forget to call a physician and arrange for your shots. Don't worry, we're fumigating. And oh yeah, the twins are doing just fine. I hear.